


Demon in an Angel's Skin

by Eve6262



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, F/M, I'm sorry Toko I love you, Implied/Referenced Murder, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Toko Fukawa's Birthday 2018, god I'm dark, man it's her birthday and I'm writing about her suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 17:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13862874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eve6262/pseuds/Eve6262
Summary: An angel in your eyes; a devil in mine.





	Demon in an Angel's Skin

**Author's Note:**

> hi it's me the person who forgot it was Toko's bday

To you, I am an angel. You shower me in gifts and praise because I apparently deserve it, although I’ve done nothing but harm. My acts are miracles in your rose-tinted eyes; my mistakes are curses thrown haphazardly at my creation. I am worth a god in your eyes, and you treat me as one, yet somehow I cannot find myself deserving of such treatment. You call me virtuous, a beauty, stunning in even rags simply strewn about in callous carelessness. 

Yet to me I am a devil, ready to steal the world’s light from its body. My body is a temple of death, one that remembers and cherishes the lives lost before it. My mind is a field of shadow, waiting to prey on itself, an example of entropy at its finest. I am a demon in the truest regard, no reverence or even thought given to human morals until the most trying of times. I am the epitome of the weight dragging down the light, even in a world where such definitions are gone.

Such angelic treatment is unfitting for such a demonic creature. I should be happy, though, to receive such treatment; perhaps it was the years of suffering under people who understood my position. Perhaps it is simply anxiety over lies, or perhaps a knowledge that you do not believe the lies you spew. The lies you spew, so vile, such a baneful thing to my existence, and yet you claim they are sweet as sugar to my vile, regrettable face. 

Such is what I think as I stare in a cold, unforgiving abyss the same color as my accent; red, that of a demon’s very essence, of blood’s rich essence. Irony struck a goldmine in my fear for the red ichor; it is my creation yet in tandem my curse. I could never blame her for the apparent distaste for needless bloodshed; I, in truth, am its proprietor. 

Her. The girl so many thought was my true curse; yet she was a disguised angel, a girl sent to save the unlucky. She found no such bloodlust in her very words, her body, her mind much less twisted and disfigured than my hellish landscape twisted into ribbons; she found only solace in saving those who would even possibly deal with my fiendish desire, their death a necessary sacrifice. 

Perhaps my newly found fear gets to me more than I thought, as I slowly inch closer to the abyss above me. It is so far, yet so close; the clouds of dust only make it seem reachable, and serve to encourage me, as though asking me to die a painful, excruciating death. They should be, in all honesty, They should push me at this point, shove me into the cold, uncaring void below, let my bones crush against the concrete with a satisfying crunch.

My mind supplies an image and I wish, oh wish I hadn’t. My bones crack and crumble to small shards embedded in veins and arteries while never piercing skin; my arm bends back and falls strange, broken at the joint and twisted at the strangest angle. My face is bloodied and broken, as it should be, and my nose and skull is broken at the front. My eyes were closed, and although bruised, sadly procure no other wounds during the fall. My spine shatters into splinters, and this is what, in the end, causes the instant death I do not deserve; it is not the ribs broken and bleeding from the cuts they cause that kill me, nor the massive bruising on a single side of my body. Blood pools, the very essence I hate, and coats everything, from my arms to my cheeks, a stain on my body.

Somehow it stops there, realizing that the rest is futile, that writing something like this would get me a straightjacket and no human contact for a week. Yet I wish in this moment for a pen and paper so badly I suspect a fellow demon may literally bring me one, if only to satisfy a fellow creature’s desire and for the knowledge that they caused my imprisonment. 

Yet no such creature is so courteous or kind, and I simply sit there with my thoughts and the red-stained void for company. Looking down will surely cause my inevitable demise to arrive, so I do not; yet my eyes think it a fun pastime, and stray downto the tops of the buildings across the way. They are remarkably suicidal; admittedly, so is the rest of my pitiful excuse for a demonic body.

Perhaps it is the better option.

Yes, that is the only correct answer in this philosophical mess of a test question.

As the wind whistles curses in my ear, I hear a single yell. I recognize it.

I ignore it. 

**Author's Note:**

> I have a tumblr go have fun if you liked that sadness, I promise more: eve6262.tumblr.com


End file.
